


The Letter

by VinHampton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Letters, Love, Love Letters, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Relationships, Sherlock Holmes and Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 04:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1730591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VinHampton/pseuds/VinHampton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vin writes a letter to Holmes, describing the way she feels about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter

Holmes. 

 

You asked if I would write my thoughts on you, and I said I would be willing. I fear, my love, that I do not possess a mind quite so meticulous as to regularly and accurately document you the way you do me. And there is so much of you I have learnt already that I fear I would only forget something basic, which will render my account of you incomplete. 

Only know this: my hands, my fingers, my lips are your students. They know your every groove and muscle; they know each bump on your scalp which your curls conceal. They are well acquainted with the trembling of your thighs when they caress your navel and the taut skin right below it. They know every mole and marking, and each is as precious and important to me as any ruby. My tongue knows the scar above your mouth. My hands know your hands, and search for them in the dark expanses of the night. I have learnt what it means when your hand squeezes mine, when your thumb strokes my palm, when our fingers interlace like lovers. 

Holmes, the convex of my belly knows the concave of yours, and in those cherished moments of warm, syrupy passion my skin cries out for you, to be touched, to be loved, to be explored and claimed by you. I know you like it when I kiss the fleshy skin behind your knee. I know you like it when my teeth graze your neck. It makes your heart beat faster, maybe out of some perceived danger. I know the length of your limbs because I know exactly how far in I must curl at night before you are wrapped around me and I feel like a whole person. I know how my head rests perfectly on your shoulder and I feel how you flinch, however subtly, when I touch the marks along your arms - remnants from your self-destructive urges. I try not to dwell on them because my love you are too perfect to ever have to feel like you deserve pain. 

I know your voice is low when you are confident or angry, rushed when you are trying to keep up with your racing mind, stumbling over consonants and missing the sharpness of the post-alveolar fricative. It happens when you're frightened too. I pretend not to hear it.

And if I could, I would record every last twitch of your muscles but it would be impossible. You are infinitely complex. Despite your protestations, your experience of emotion runs deeper than the lines in the palms of your hands; it courses through your blood, it mingles with your synapses. You deny it, but I see the little spasm, the little contraction, the controlled convulsion, and I know otherwise, and I know that that makes you uneasy. 

But I will never apologise for making you /feel/ - not emotion, nor sensation. You said once you wanted to belong to me. Let them belong to me: the urges, the caresses, the orgasms, the aftermath, the tangling of limbs and the comedown. Let me have them, I know them all: your words, your looks, your pleas. Let me own them. I will be your teacher, I will be your student. 

And the map of you remains contained in my fingertips, so you know when I am touching you and embracing you and comforting you, I am also learning you. Let me hold your secrets. Only you can read me. 

 

Yours.  
Vivienne


End file.
